How To Know That Someone Else Has Been Living in Your Home

When the first thing you see (after trudging through an allegedly “accessible” snow covered driveway) is wet cat food splattered all over your refrigerator, you know that Someone Else has been living in your home.

When the newly washed spoons are all facing in the wrong direction, with one actually misappropriated to the fork section, you know.

When your coffee cups, which have been stacked upright, with one inside another since, oh, I don’t know, forever, are all upside down and piled on top of each other in a precarious fashion which will inevitably lead to one leaping out at you when it’s time for your morning coffee, you know.

When an entire half gallon of orange juice is decimated within two days of purchase, it’s a hint.

When your shower curtain sags occasionally because one (or sometimes two…or three) of the hooks has magically become dismantled from the rod, you know.  It apparently takes great feats of strength to reach less than a foot above one’s head to re-hook the hooks.  It’s strange, but somehow you know that Someone Else has been in the area.

When your collection of full garbage bags which haven’t been put to the curb is startlingly more than just one, you know.  It’s a known fact that your town secretly changes the pickup day every week, and has not been on Monday morning since, oh, I don’t know, forever.

When you wake up in the morning to find a half-sliced tomato/open bag of bread/crumbs/dirty frying pan/18 used glasses, on or near the kitchen counter, which was empty the previous night, you know.

Part II:  How to Know You Have a Mom Living in Your Home, by Someone Else

When her first words to you upon returning home from work are, “You’ve got to be kidding me!!!!”, you know, not only that you have done Something Terrible, but also, that this person is likely a Mom.

When your unique and ingenious ways of stacking coffee cups and brazen disregard for government controlling rules regarding placement of utensils in drawers or immediately washing dirty glasses is met with a speech about being up since 5:15 and how life isn’t fair and why taxes are necessary and another thing the garbage has been going out on Monday for forever, you know.

When your efforts to pick up your laundry and put the dirty dishes in the dishwasher and shoveling the driveway for fifteen minutes during a blizzard are nullified because there is a little wet cat food on the refrigerator, you know there is a Mom living in your house.  So much for trying to do something good.

When apparently a container of orange juice is not actually meant to be consumed, and rather, should be left in the refrigerator to be wasted and thrown out weeks later, with complaints that you didn’t drink any of it, you know there is a Mom in your home.  Drink it.  Don’t drink it.  Moms are confusing and sucky.

When you see a blog post complaining about stupid crap like a shower curtain (if it’s so easy to fix, fix it yourself) or the garbage (everyone forgets things now and then), it’s a hint that there is a Mom around.  A picky, pain in the a$$ one.  I’ll get to it eventually.  Geesh.

Part III:  Dear Someone Else, a letter written by A Mom

Too bad.

Much love,

Mom

Cheese Cream, Derodiant, Melonade, and Horbones

“Is that a cup of pee on the stove?”
“Huh?”
“Is that a cup of pee on the stove…?”
“A cup of what?”
“Pee.”
“Pee?”
“Yeah, a cup of pee.”
“Why the hell would there be a cup of pee on the stove??”

Real conversation encountered between my son and myself recently.
He was referring to a plastic cup on the stove which contained olive oil.  Not pee.  I’m not sure in which home he grew up, but we certainly don’t have cups of pee on the stove, or lying around anywhere else, for that matter.

Today’s post is going to be a quickie about the weird things kids come up with as they’re growing up.  Or even if they’re already grown up.

Spenser used to confuse some words when he was very young, among them, the correct items known as cream cheese, deodorant, lemonade, and hormones.  Interestingly enough, we still refer to these items by their incorrect names, though I think we’ve now moved on to actually saying “lemonade.”   (I actually had to re-type the correct spelling of “deodorant” because to me, it is “derodiant.”)

The word “horbones” was invented/discovered in a unique way.  Back when Princess Diana died, I was a sad mess. I know it seems ridiculous, but this is the lady who I watched and followed since I was young; read everything I could about her engagement, arose early to watch her wedding, followed her married life.  Years later, as I was watching some more footage on the mind-boggling car crash which ended her life, I was, of course, crying.  Spenser surprisingly noticed this, and asked, “What’s a matter, Mommy?  Is it your horbones?”

Now, I have a whole other post regarding horbones, but it’s pretty damned amusing that a four year old boy already has a grasp on the idea of what hormones can do to a female and uses the word as part of his conversation.  I never wanted a son who would be squeamish about “female things,” so I guess he actually learned one lesson early on.  Quite possibly the only lesson I ever taught, but, that’s for another time.

We use these pet words in public, and I’m sure that anyone overhearing might wonder what kind of moron doesn’t know that the proper phrase is “cream cheese” and not vice versa.  Thankfully, I have never mistakenly asked anyone where the “derodiant” aisle was located.  So, believe it or not, I sometimes give a little leeway if someone mispronounces or misspells an interesting word.  Now, I’m not talking about two/too/to, you know me enough by now.  No leeway for that.

But if I hear someone say they are making bisghetti (spaghetti) for dinner, I give them a break, and maybe even a smile.  As long as they don’t serve it with milk or melonade.  Or pee.

How to Kill Your Mom (not literally, of course)

Bring home one of these:

Then insist the following:

1. Dog licenses are unnecessary, and no one has ever gotten stopped by the police for walking around with a  Pit Bull.

2. That you and above animal can live comfortably in the garage, because even though the landlord says “no dogs,” the dog won’t actually be in the apartment.

3. That it’s negative to only be concerned about the bad things that could happen, like pet illness, pet attacking someone, pet going into heat, pet having the misfortune to be a breed that is widely feared and unaccepted in society.

4. That the cat which has been living with you for 11 years is being a jerk when he hisses at “puppy” who could snap its neck in one quick move.

In addition:

5. Make sure that your mom is an absolute bleeding heart when it comes to all animals, and know that it’s going to kill her to call “the pound” unless  you find a no-kill shelter, which you certainly haven’t looked into because you think your mother is going to cave in.

Yes, folks.  If you thought your kid bringing home a kitten was bad, try a seven month old Pit Bull.  Let’s add to the fun and make sure that the dog has been ousted from its original home (and may or may not have papers), cries and won’t leave your side because it is likely petrified it will be deserted, is actually a good dog thus far, and no one is likely to ever adopt it due to the fact that it’s a Pit Bull.

Currently searching for parents to adopt one 19-year old male child (mostly housebroken), and his 7 month old female companion.  Serious inquiries only.

How To Kill Your Mom (not literally, of course…)

Bring home one of these:

meme-pic

Then insist the following:

  1. Dog licenses are unnecessary, and no one has ever gotten stopped by the police for walking around with a  Pit Bull.
  2. That you and above animal can live comfortably in the garage, because even though the landlord says “no dogs,” the dog won’t actually be in the apartment.
  3. That it’s negative to only be concerned about the bad things that could happen, like pet illness, pet attacking someone, pet going into heat, pet having the misfortune to be a breed that is widely feared and unaccepted in society.
  4. That the cat which has been living with you for 11 years is being a jerk when he hisses at “puppy” who could snap its neck in one quick move.

In addition:

  1. Make sure that your mom is an absolute bleeding heart when it comes to all animals, and know that it’s going to kill her to call “the pound” unless  you find a no-kill shelter, which you certainly haven’t looked into because you think your mother is going to cave in.

Yes, folks.  If you thought your kid bringing home a kitten was bad, try a seven month old Pit Bull.  Let’s add to the fun and make sure that the dog has been ousted from its original home (and may or may not have papers), cries and won’t leave your side because it is likely petrified it will be deserted, is actually a good dog thus far, and no one is likely to ever adopt it due to the fact that it’s a Pit Bull.

Currently searching for parents to adopt one 19-year old male child (mostly housebroken), and his 7 month old female companion.  Serious inquiries only.

The Opening Chapter for Spenser

Well, since it’s my son’s 19th birthday today, I figured I would write a little about that auspicious occasion.  I won’t go into too many gory details on the matter, but, as I mentioned in a previous post, a child’s birthday is really a “special” day for the mother, as well.

19 years ago, at this very moment, I suspect I was a very unhappy camper.  I had been in some easy labor the day before, when they forced me to rush to the hospital with unshaved legs, no bags packed, NO SOCKS and ultrasound gel all over my clothes; I think they started me on Pitocin, but it seemed like an easy gig.  I was able to walk around, joke with people, etc.  They decided this was far too much fun for a person to be having whilst in labor, so they did the whole Breaking of the Water ceremony the following morning.

I’ll tell you now, that is pretty gross.  Apart from the strange fact that they’re using something like a crocheting needle, gleefully poking around, and the resulting sound is that of someone rubbing a balloon, what happens when they succeed is just… ew.

I’m going to insert a sidebar here on the fact that when you are in labor, all modesty goes out the window.  Now, upon arrival at the hospital, I was insistent that someone find me a pair of socks, because you all know how I am about feet.  Interestingly, my feet were the only non exposed part of my entire body, and I suppose I took some comfort in that.  During the whole labor process, it got to the point where I was willing to accept any random white-coated stranger into the room, in hopes to get the whole process moving.  Apparently, word got around that I was carrying a very large baby, so a bunch of residents and/or Med Students were invited into my room to view the phenomenon of a woman laboring with a 26 pound baby. (I’m exaggerating here, they expected Spenser to be well over 10 pounds)  Apart from feeling a little freakish, I was excited and hopeful that somehow this would expedite the process.

Anyway, after the Breaking of the Water Ceremony, the whole real labor thing kicked in, and that was not fun, either.  About ten hours later, they wheeled me into the operating room, as Spenser was suspected to be a Giant baby, and I wasn’t progressing as they had hoped.  Time for the dreaded C-Section!

Again, I will skip the gory details, as I don’t wish to frighten any prospective laboring Mothers out there.  Needless to say, after being completely exposed from the neck down (why even bother with those little paper sheets?  Come on!), and being told to lie completely still while in a fetal position during full on labor (this was definitely made up by some guy… “fetal” position is great for a fetus, not so great for someone with a gargantuan object protruding from their midsection), we eventually got to the good part.

Thankfully, my sister Rosalie was there with a video camera, because I have no real recollection of what happened once they started rearranging my internal cavity to extract my newborn and bring him into the world.

My first fuzzy recollection of being presented with my baby (no name yet) was in the Recovery Room, where they kind of pushed him close to my face and I kissed his forehead.  Or her forehead.  I wasn’t even sure.  The next morning, when I was slightly more coherent, they brought in my little bundle of joy.

I remember the nurse (or my Mom?) taking a brush and kind of brushing his hair to the side, in order to make the best first impression for our introduction.  Well, it was pretty surreal.  He looked nothing like I had expected.  First of all, his hair was dark and curly.  Second, his face was really chubby, and it seemed as if he had gotten into a prizefight the day before.  His dark eyes were pretty hidden underneath all that chubbiness.  I admit, I was a little concerned that I had been assigned the wrong baby.  Where was the blond haired, blue eyed, pink cherub?  Who was this dark haired Sumo baby?

Regardless, I was pretty amazed.  Mostly at the fact that it just felt so normal to have this creature at my side.  Despite the fact that his looks were a little unexpected, the rest of it just felt really “right.”  I don’t know how else to explain it.  It’s not like I was outpouring with love and felt this great bond, it was really just like thinking, “okay, so here we are!”  I didn’t even question whether there was a bond, that felt like a stupid thing to even consider.  All those crap magazine articles about bonding were exactly that: crap.  It felt completely natural and normal, and I was silently impressed by that.

Now, I won’t go into the whole thing about the fact that my roommate had given birth “naturally” to a 6 pound girl, who, not only kept waking me up whenever it was breast-feeding time every five minutes during the night, but was also able to dance a jig and do normal bathroom functions.  I also won’t go into how I rolled my eyes (secretly) when she talked about how difficult her labor was, when, to me, her baby looked like an afternoon snack for the likes of my Giant baby.  But I will say, my Spenser was pretty damned awesome as a newborn.

He looked strong and healthy, he didn’t cry a whole lot, and looked like he could kick the a$$ of any newborn within a mile.  When you held him, you weren’t afraid that you would break him.  That also felt right.  He was my perfect match, in truth.

So now it’s 19 years later, and I can’t believe we’ve made it this far.  The years really do speed by, even though it doesn’t feel like that, when it’s happening.  Through all the ups and downs and sleepless nights and tears shed, we’re still here.  And though we drive each other crazy at times, and don’t always like each other, the thing is, it’s still feels “right.”  He still is my perfect match.  And thankfully, he no longer resembles a Sumo wrestler with a black eye.